


remembrance

by mysticalmusicwhispers



Series: Ponderous Thoughts (a hetalia drabble series) [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Birthday, Character Study, Drabble, Ficlet, Gen, The Meandering Thoughts of Wang Yao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:40:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29051535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysticalmusicwhispers/pseuds/mysticalmusicwhispers
Summary: Just this once, he will allow himself to be pulled by the stirrings of memories, to turn them over in his mind, to reflect, to remember.or: Wang Yao reminisces on his birthday.
Series: Ponderous Thoughts (a hetalia drabble series) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2131374
Kudos: 3





	remembrance

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from my [tumblr](https://mysticalmusicwhispers.tumblr.com) ([original post](https://mysticalmusicwhispers.tumblr.com/post/630832177902452736/remembrance))! Originally in time for China's birthday on October 1, 2020.
> 
> Feedback is welcome and appreciated!

Yao wakes early that morning, earlier than he usually does. The sun has not yet risen, and he lies still in the semi-darkness, eyes closed, waiting for the vague haze of sleep to clear from his mind. But even through the fog in his brain that muddles him like baijiu and blurs his thoughts into indistinct shadows, he knows, instinctively, that it is October 1st again. It is his birthday again.

When he steps into the overgrown lot beside his apartment, it is lighter, pale glimmers of lemon yellow and peach pink blushing over the horizon. The air is still crisp, not yet choked with smog and car exhaust, and he breathes deeply; it is rare for him to find clean air in Beijing, and something about it—the cool air, suffused with morning dew, the quiet, still morning, the plaintive chirp of the last autumn crickets in the weeds—brings him back to the old days, when everything was simpler and time passed slower.

So as he stands, looking around at the last patch of non-cement ground teeming with plant life unmanaged— _untouched_ —by humans, he lets himself go, lets himself sink back into his memories of the past. He lets himself remember when there were small gardens full of vegetables on every street corner, before the tall skyscrapers came and sprouted through the concrete; lets himself go back to when farmers used cows instead of tractors; lets himself recall the times when people were not rich and cities were not _the_ place to be; lets the memories of the wars (against his own people, against Kiku, against Arthur, against _them all_ ), the peace, the art, music, inventions, and the sacrifice; lets them all flood back again. Just this once, he will allow himself to be pulled by the stirrings of memories, to turn them over in his mind, to reflect, to remember.

Later, he will walk to Tiananmen to watch the sunrise flag raising ceremony, listen to the speeches, linger at the food stalls, watch his people talk animatedly about their plans for the next few blissful days off, perhaps even take part in the festivities himself. But that is later. For now, he sits still, listening to the melodic chirp of crickets, allowing himself to remember everything that has happened and everything that he has seen, done, fought, sacrificed over four thousand years.


End file.
